When a Heart Breaks
by thedayyoufindoutwhy
Summary: "Someone at sometime said that everything happens for a reason. I'm not saying they're wrong. I'm just saying I hate the reasons." Phil gets into an accident and Dan is there to pick up the pieces. Danisnotonfire x AmazingPhil.
1. Chapter 1

"Dan!" Phil shouts from the lounge. I gauge the distance between me and the door. If it's important enough, he'll come to me. "Dan!" Phil shouts after a few seconds, his voice taking on a singing quality. I hear him walking down the hallway and quickly slide my headphones in, giving myself an excuse as to why I didn't respond. He peeks his head in the door, a smile illuminating his face. I look up at him.

"What you listening to?" he asks, walking over to me to see the blank screen. "Nothing. My favorite song," he says, bumping my shoulder with his to show he's kidding with me. I close my laptop and sit back. Phil follows suit, lying down next to me, our shoulders pressed together.

"Are you just pestering me for the fun of it?" I ask him. He laughs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I have something you will most definitely want and you are going to have to apologize to me before you get it," Phil says, barely concealing a smile.

I sigh and give in, turning my head a little so I can look at him. "I'm very sorry, Phillip." My voice is monotone, but apparently my apology is good enough. Phil grabs an envelope out of his pocket and sits up. He shoves it at me.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Open it." I flip over the envelope and watch as a card falls onto my chest. Under closer examination, I determine that it's a Starbucks gift card.

"Cool. Who's it from?"

"Starbucks," he answers with way more excitement than I think this situation calls for.

"Thanks for that brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I couldn't have figured that one out on my own." Phil shoots me a half-hearted glare and snatches the card out of my hands.

"I mean Starbucks headquarters or whoever actually sent it. You remember when I was tweeting about Starbucks a month or so ago?" Phil asks, sitting up. I nod and roll my eyes. "To say thanks, they sent me this. Which is for free drinks. For a year." I look over at him.

"You're joking."

"I would not joke about something this important." I smile and reach for the card, but he pulls it out of my reach. "Get dressed. We're going on an adventure," he says over his shoulder as he leaves my room.

**0.0.0**

"I can't believe you're drinking that," I say, shuddering at the sight of Phil's pale fingers wrapped around the frozen coffee. "It's, like, subzero temperatures out here."

"But it's so good!" he says, taking another big sip. I shiver. Just to prove my point, little puffs of snow start to drift down from the heavens. I point up at the sky and give Phil a pointed look.

"See. Even God agrees it's too cold for frozen drinks." Phil laughs and pulls the edges of his sleeves over his hands, awkwardly juggling the cup in the crook of his elbow. He stops in the middle of the empty pavement and stares up at the night sky.

"I love the snow," he says. He closes his eyes against the open sky. I can't help but stare at him; he's so absolutely perfect in this moment. He blinks and starts walking again. I quickly shake myself, a little confused at my thoughts. Phil sucks down the rest of his drink and throws it in the nearest bin. The snow starts coming down harder and I instantly wish I had on a better jacket. I move a little closer to Phil, trying to feed off his body heat. Phil's teeth start clacking together.

"Let's run," he says, his eyes sparkling with barely contained energy. I am 21-years-old. Most people would deem that too old to be running through the streets of downtown London with your best friend. But with Phil, I forget that there's a pile of bills waiting for me on the counter and a video to make and edit in the next 48-hours and that I'm usually lazy as fuck.

"Race?" I ask. I let a bit of my competitive edge sneak out and brace myself.

"On the count of three. One. Two—"Phil takes off down the pavement and I follow close behind. We slip along the icy concrete. I fall forward and catch myself on Phil's shoulder, laughing as he lets out a squeak. We stay vigilant as we run, checking for cars and pedestrians, weaving in and out of them when we have to, ignoring the shouts of angry passers-by.

Tonight, London is ours.

We stop at a crosswalk, staring at the red hand telling us to stop. I look over to Phil and bite my chapped lip. His eyes flick from mine, down to my mouth, then back. We start to gravitate towards each other, warm seeking warm. And then Phil's lips are brushing against mine and my heart is racing from the exercise and the excitement and this should feel wrong but it's only right and I've never been happier and—

The light changes. Phil breaks the kiss and runs across the road, stealing a glance back at me. His blue eyes lock onto mine and I feel alive for what feels like the first time in my life.

We are invincible.

And because of that, or maybe in spite of it, it turned out I was wrong.

It seems like in a single second, Phil went from standing in the road to lying in it. And I can't seem to connect this now Phil to the one he was; to the one who was laughing and kissing me. And I can't seem to make the connection between the yellow cab with the dented hood and the bleeding boy lying in the street. It's like there's a gap in my memory; like I took in the information and my brain short-circuited because it knew that in this moment, I couldn't survive knowing what I've just seen.

I am frozen.

And then I look at Phil, wide blue eyes staring at me as he lies gasping on the cold asphalt.

My brain catches up.

The cabby gets out of his vehicle and starts pacing.

"I didn't see him!" he screams out. "Fucking God. He just ran out in the goddamned road. Holy fuck. Holy fuck."

"Hey!" I shout at him, snapping into action. His eyes snap up to mine and I start running towards Phil. "Call 999." The man stares at me for a long moment, his hands shaking. His is the face of a man paralyzed with fear. And I get it. I really do. But Phil doesn't have time for this. "Now!" I shout at him. He blinks once and pulls a phone out of his pocket.

"Phil?" I say, kneeling on the ground next to him. I brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Phil, talk to me. Please." His teeth chatter together. His pale blue eyes are staring up at me, taking me in. His breathing is shallow, labored.

"C—cold," he chatters. I shrug out of my jacket and cover him with it, clutching onto his shoulders, trying to hide my fear from him. "Dan?" he says, tears choking his voice. I interlace our fingers together. His eyelids flutter, like it's a physical effort to keep them open. He coughs, turning his head to spit blood onto the road.

"Yeah, Phil?" I whisper. My voice is hoarse, broken. _This is not happening. Things like this don't happen in real life. _

"Back there? I think I was falling in love with you." His words are tainted with a smile, and he is so Phil right now and so absolutely alive. I let out a choked sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and kiss his forehead.

His hand goes limp in mine.

"Phil?" I mutter, shaking his hand. He doesn't respond. I press two shaking fingers to his throat and begin to search for a pulse. "Phil, please wake up," I mutter, my voice turning desperate. I wipe away the tears building in my eyes. My brain falters for a second before starting to run through the pathetic medical training I've had. I tilt Phil's head back and check his breathing. Nothing. _I'm going to be sick_.

I press my lips over his, startled by how cold they are, and exhale. His chest rises and falls, once, twice, as I force air into his lungs. And then I start compressions. Cycles of thirty, I remember. I fall into a pattern, breathing air into Phil's lungs then pumping the oxygenated blood through his system. Over, and over and over again.

I can't think of this cold, lifeless body as Phil. I hear his ribs crack under the pressure I'm putting them through but I know that if I stop, he will die. Because he is not dead yet. I will not let him die here.

The ambulance shows up.

"We can take care of it from here," a female paramedic says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I shake her off.

"He's going to die," I mutter, as all of the will leaks out of me. "Oh, God." A pair of strong arms wrap around my shoulders and lift me off of Phil. I struggle against them, but I'm tired and I can't keep fighting so I go limp, letting someone else support me. I watch as the paramedics continue CPR and load him into the ambulance. They let me in too. I'm not allowed to touch Phil, or get in the paramedic's way. The fact that they're still fighting for his life is a comfort to me.

A car drives by, pouring bright white light over my hands. The color looks a bit off. A bit red. I look closer. Blood. _Phil's_ blood. It takes all my energy to keep from throwing up.


	2. Chapter 2

They get him to the hospital in good time. I'm not allowed to see him. They've washed me up, offered me a change of clothes. A nurse keeps coming in to check on me. She wraps a blanket around my shoulders, puts a warm cup of tea in my hands and tells me that everything is going to be alright.

I think I'm in shock, but I'm not sure. I've never been in shock before.

After hours of letting myself float in this void of denial, I force myself to think. There are more important things I should be doing right now. Someone has to tell his parents. I think of his mom and almost start crying. My phone is still in my pocket, and Phil's home number has long been programmed into my contacts. I don't know what to tell her. How do you tell a woman her son is dying?

"Is there someone you need to call, honey?" a nurse asks. I look up, not having realized I wasn't alone.

"His parents," I choke out, squeezing my phone tightly, relishing in the feeling of the edges digging into my palm. It is real and concrete and I have power over it and although that sounds ridiculous it gives me hope that not everything is lost.

"They've already been contacted." Her voice is like honey, and I relax a little. I slip the phone back into my pocket and lapse into silence. I feel like I can breathe again.

"Daniel Howell?" I look up at the sound of a new voice. A black-haired, blue-eyed man in a white lab suit. He sits in the seat beside me. "Phillip's parents are—"

"Phil," I correct.

"What?"

"His name is Phil. No one calls him Phillip." I look up to meet the doctor's eyes. He looks tired, and I give myself half a second to pity him. But I am too tired and too worried to think of anything other than Phil.

"Right. Phil's parents are in Sweden and can't make it here until tomorrow evening. In their absence, they have chosen you to make decisions regarding Phil's care. Do you accept this?" I'm only half-surprised by this. Phil's parents know me well enough to trust that I care enough for him to make decisions in his best interest.

"I accept," I say. The doctor nods, giving me what I think is supposed to be a comforting smile. I don't feel very comforted.

"Phil has sustained serious injuries in the crash. We've determined he has internal bleeding, but the MRI's are inconclusive and we cannot locate the source. We need your permission to conduct an explorative surgery." Surgery. I've watched enough medical dramas to know that with people in Phil's condition, surgery is a desperate measure.

"Is there any other option?" I ask.

"You could opt against the surgery, understanding there's a risk of heart failure. The crash has weakened Phil's heart and his internal organs are already shutting down. If he continues to lose blood at the rate he's at now, it's very probable that he will be dead by morning. If you opt for the surgery, we may be able to locate the source of the bleeding and fix the damage before he bleeds out." A life or death decision.

I don't want to be alone right now. I'm afraid that if Phil dies I'll be alone forever.

"He'll die without the surgery?" I choke out.

"I can't say for sure, but I've been practicing medicine for 13 years and I've never seen someone in a similar situation survive." I can't meet the doctor's eyes.

"I guess there's only one option, then." I look up at the doctor. His gaze is level, and something about it makes me trust him. "Do the surgery." He nods at me, marking something down on his chart.

"And Dan?" he says, touching me lightly on the shoulder. "What you did back at the scene? The CPR? Without it, Phil would be dead. So whatever you're feeling, know you did everything you could." I don't know how to tell him that he's wrong; I should have held him tighter, drawn him closer to me, deepened the kiss and told him right there that he means the world to me. Then he would not be dying without knowing that I love him. Or maybe he wouldn't be dying at all.

When I don't say anything the doctor leaves.

Around me the hospital is alive. It seems wrong considering this could be the place where Phil dies.

**0.0.0**

"Mr. Howell?" I blink my eyes open to see the same doctor from earlier standing at the threshold of the waiting room. I can't believe I fell asleep. I mutter something incoherent in response. "Phil's out of surgery. Would you like to go see him?" The words take a second to bounce around in my head before sticking.

And as soon as they do, I'm standing. If I can see him, then he's alive, and if Phil's alive, then everything will be alright. The doctor smiles and motions for me to follow him. I want to yell at him for not moving fast enough. I need to see Phil, touch him, hear his voice; to do the things I hadn't known I'd been taking advantage of.

The doctor stops in front of a door, and I don't even wait for his warnings before I rush right in. Tears prick my eyes as soon as I see him, but I refuse to break down. If I can last this long, I can last longer.

There are so many wires and tubes attached to his body that he barely looks like my Phil anymore. I walk slowly to his bedside and slip my hand into his.

"Is he going to be alright?" I ask the doctor, forcing my eyes to avoid the tube snaking down his throat.

"Mr. Lester has lapsed into a coma, which is to be expected considering the amount of trauma he's been through. There's no telling how long it will last or how extensive the damage will be until he wakes up." There's a wall between me and the doctor, like if I can't hear the words coming out of his mouth than I can stop them from being true. I squeeze Phil's hand, urging him to wake up. My lips pass over his cheek. His skin is cool and smooth.

He's so still, I could mistake him for the dead. The doctor checks a few of the monitors than leaves. I brush a strand of hair out of his face. Already, it feels as though parts of him are fading from my memory. I want to kiss him, but I'm afraid it will feel too much like kissing a corpse.

"You know, Phil," I whisper into his ear. "I was falling in love with you, too." I tighten my grip on his fingers. Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them away before they can fall. "You can't do this to me, love," I mutter, brushing my lips against his knuckles. "You have to wake up."


	3. Chapter 3

I stand by the only window in Phil's hospital room, staring out over the expanse of snow. We had a white Christmas this year, not that it matters. With Phil still in a coma, I couldn't bring myself to go home and I wouldn't allow my family to come here to spend their holiday in the hospital. Phil's parents stayed for Christmas, so I wasn't alone at least. His brother came down, too, for as long as he could, but both he and his parents had to leave when work pulled them back to the real world. For the first time in my life, I resent my YouTube career. As selfish as it is, I wish there was something to pull me away from this goddamn hospital. But I can't leave him.

I keep my eyes locked on the snow because I don't want to look at Phil. He has begun to wither away. The doctors call it atrophy; say it's natural for a person who's been stationary for such a long time. I can't help but think he's wasting away to nothing, and soon, there won't be any Phil left.

I walk to his bedside and intertwine my hand with his. It has been too many days since I've seen the cerulean of his eyes.

"I love you," I whisper to the empty shell that is Phil. His face is expressionless. His cheekbones are pushing against his skin in a way that makes him look like he's starving in a different way than I am. I want him back. "I love you," I repeat. The absence of response cuts through me like it never has before, and I start to take on the mindset of a different man. "I love you!" I half yell at him. I stare at the heart monitor, cursing its consistency, the way it refuses to acknowledge me, willing it to tell me a different story. "This is supposed to be the point where you give me a sign that you hear me," I tell him desperately. "I love you, Phil. I mean it. I am meaning it as hard as I can. Please, love. Wake up." I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing him in. "I need you." He doesn't even smell like himself anymore.

Tears leak out of my eyes against my will. I cling onto his still, warm body, helplessly noting the absence of his arms, searching his face for something left in this vegetable that is Phil.

And then the beating begins to change. I look up at the heart monitor, shocked, and grip tighter onto him.

"Phil? Are you still in there?" His heart beat increases. "Nurse!" I scream, unable to keep the hysteria from my voice. "Someone! Anyone!"

"What is it Mr. Howell?" one of the night nurses asks, breathing heavily like she ran to get here.

"Look at his heartbeat," I say. I glance up at the monitor, but it's returned to normal. "No. Phil," I say, cupping his face in my hands. I push my lips into his, colder than they were before, but still Phil. And once again, the heart monitor picks up a change.

"There! That's good, right?" I look up at the shocked nurse, smiling.

"Let me get a doctor," she says. But I don't really need a professional opinion. I know, without a doubt, that Phil is in there. And he's coming back to me.

**0.0.0**

I got a call this morning telling me that Phil had woken up. It's sudden. After seven weeks of nothing, Phil has woken up. The doctor's can't explain it, and I don't know if I want them to. I want to forget doctors and hospitals and bring Phil home.

I had thought that once I got that phone call, I would have rushed right out of the house. But I can't. I'm too afraid that this isn't real. The ride to the hospital is like a dream.

The woman at reception gives me a nod and a smile as I pass. She's use to seeing me here. I walk the familiar hallways to his room. The door is open. It takes a moment before I can muster up the courage to walk through it.

And then there he is. I stare at him as he watches a pretty young blonde attach a blood pressure cuff to his arm. My eyes fixate on the healthy blush coloring his cheeks. And then he looks up and our eyes meet.

"Dan," he says, flashing me the most brilliant smile. I rush over to him and grab onto his hand, brushing my lips against his knuckles. And when that contact wasn't enough, I kiss his forehead, then his cheekbones, before settling my lips on his. We have an audience, but I really don't give a shit.

"I thought you were going to die," I mutter against his warm flesh. Not cold, like it has been. But warm. Alive. _Awake_. "I love you," I tell him, not daring to waste time we might not have. I can't take in enough of him; the warmth of his skin, the blue of his eyes, the way emotion is written so obviously on the planes of his face.

"I love you, Dan," he says, the corners of his mouth curling into a brilliant smile. "I want to kiss you, but I'm not allowed to bend sideways." I appease him, leaning over to press my lips to his. He sighs into it, like he's absolutely, perfectly happy. I want to stay in this moment forever. "My Daniel Howell," he whispers. "I heard you. You came everyday and I heard you. I tried to show you, I promise you I did but—"

"It doesn't matter," I whisper, smiling for the first time in what feels like forever. Everything is perfect. Absolutely perfect. "Can you say it again?" I ask.

"What?" I take in the cerulean of his eyes, refusing to take it for granted again.

"That you love me?" He smiles, reaching a hand up to cup my cheek.

"I love you, Dan." He tugs lightly at me and I happily allow him to guide my lips to his. "I love you," he mutters against my mouth. He says it again and again, punctuating each "I love you" with a kiss. His hand drops from my cheeks and he turns his face towards his shoulder to stifle a yawn.

"Go to sleep, love. I'll be here when you wake up." He flashes me his million dollar smile and gently intertwines our fingers.

"Thank you, Dan," he says, his eyes fluttering shut. "For being here for me and for loving me. I don't deserve someone like you." I was about to object when I noticed he had already fallen asleep.

"I love you," I whisper, pressing my lips against his forehead. For the first time in weeks, when I fall asleep by his side, I don't dream of death.

**0.0.0**

_Beeeeep_.

I blink my eyes open at the introduction of this new sound.

"_Paging Doctor Blue to room 413." _Room 413? Isn't that Phil's room. The door slams open to reveal a nurse wheeling in a cart. The persistent beeping grates my nerves. I grip onto Phil's hand reflexively. It's limp.

And then I get it.

"No," I say. A nurse starts to drag me away from Phil. I fight her. I reach for him, but his bed is already being surrounded by doctors. A male nurse starts to pull on me, and between the two of them, they get me pinned to the wall. "PHIL!" I scream. The doctors rip off his hospital gown and place the paddles on his chest and I know where this is going. Deep down I know exactly what's going to happen and I hate it.

"Clear." Everyone takes their hands off of Phil as the doctor sends a shot of electricity through his heart. His body stiffens. His head rolls back a little. The heart monitor gives a little blip, then flat lines again.

"Someone get him out of here!" another doctor says. I try to quiet the hysterical screams ripping through my throat, but I can't.

That is Phil. _My_ Phil. And he is dying.

I keep my eyes glued to his still form as they drag me out of the room. I press my palms to the glass separating me from him, trying to will his heart to keep beating.

They shock him again. And again. And again. Nothing.

And then the doctors unplug him from the machines.

I fight my way into his room and throw myself on top of him.

"No. You do _not_ get to die on me Phil Michael Lester." I press my ear to his chest, refusing to accept the silence. "Come on, Phil. You love me, remember. You love me and I love you and you are not allowed to die on me." I take him by the shoulders and shake him, but his head only flops lifelessly from side to side. With a last, desperate action, I press my lips to his. But they are cold. And Phil is dead.

Dead.

"Daniel?" Phil's doctor whispers to me, his arm draped gently across my shoulder. I don't have the energy to push him away.

"He was fine. He was going to be okay." My voice is hoarse from all the screaming.

"This happens sometimes, Dan. We call it the surge. Sometimes, very sick people will wake up so they have a chance to say goodbye." I tighten my grip on Phil. He is already growing cold. But it's really not even Phil anymore, is it? It's a corpse.

Phil is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hello, Internet." I shoot the camera a sad half-grin. My suit jacket pulls at my shoulders. An hour from now, I'll be heading up north for Phil's funeral. "By now, most of you know that Phil is dead." Any semblance of normalcy falls away after that. My eyes flicker shut and I breathe for a moment, letting those words crash over me. "It was sudden. He was young." I stare into the lens of the camera and hold myself back from picking it up and throwing it against the wall.

"This will be my last video. I love YouTube, and I love this amazing community and I love all of you. I don't want you to worry about me, Danosaurs. I'll be fine." I see my room in the viewfinder. Every single thing reminds me of Phil. "But I loved Phil and I can't sit in front of this camera every week and pretend things are normal when they're not." Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I told myself I wouldn't cry until the funeral and that's a promise I intend to keep. "I miss him." I turn off the camera before I can say anything I'll regret.

Without watching the minute worth of footage, I upload it. Chris and PJ will be back soon. They've been sleeping in the living room for about a week now. Without anyone saying anything, they sort of fell into Dan watch. I had given up on that job after Phil died.

They had come to check on me only to find me curled up in Phil's bed. When they realized I hadn't eaten or showered and barely slept, they insisted on staying. l still sleep there, sneaking in after they've both fallen asleep. I think they know, but they don't say anything.

"Dan?" I look up at the sound of PJ's voice. He stands in the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. "Are you ready to go?"

"I was the one who told his parents." I walk over to the couch and sit down on in, pulling my knees up to my chest. "'Your son is dead. Phil is dead.' Those are the exact words I used." PJ slides into the seat next to me. My fingers dig into my knees as I flashback to his mother's agonized screams. "They hate me," I whisper under my breath. PJ's arm slides around my shoulders as he hugs me close to him.

"Dan. There is no way they can hate someone who loved their son as much as you did," PJ says, squeezing me tighter.

"It's gonna be alright, Dan," Chris says, coming into the living room.

"Thank you," I mutter. Like the good friends they are, they know not to say anything. "We should go."

**0.0.0**

I knew that a lot of people loved Phil. Of course people loved him; how could you not? But seeing it—actually seeing it—was completely different. To say the church was packed would be an understatement.

"Dan!" Phil's mom waves me over from the front of the church. I pick my way towards her, feeling my heart sink with every step. "I'm so glad to see you," she says to me, grabbing onto one of my hands. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. Those tears are my fault. This whole thing is my fault.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. I lock my knees to prevent myself from collapsing.

"For what, dear?" she asks, holding onto my arms.

"I should have done more for him. I should have held him closer and I should have told him it was stupid and reckless to run through downtown London and I shouldn't have let him get hit by that _stupid_ cab and—" That does it. I fall to my knees before her, her hands still gripping onto me. "It should have been me," I tell her, barely able to hold her gaze.

"Dan," she tuts, bringing her hands to cup mine. "Don't you dare blame yourself."

"If I had told him I loved him sooner—"

"He would still be dead," she says, blinking tears out of her eyes. "My son loved you, Dan. I could see it every time he talked about you, although he was afraid to admit it to himself and even more afraid to admit it to me. He loved you with everything he had in him and knowing that he died with you by his side is a comfort to me because I can know he died happy." She wipes away my tears with her thumbs, which is when I realize that I am seconds away from sobbing. She pulls me against her, her arms wrapping around my head to stroke my hair, and I feel like a little boy.

"Thank you," I mutter to her, saying the words a million times over. She pulls away and helps me up, squeezing tightly on my hand.

"Now, you and Chris and PJ are going to sit up front with the family, alright?" I nod and take my seat among those closest to Phil. _My_ Phil, who was never fully mine.

The funeral runs like most do. People stand and tell us what Phil meant to them as I sit, resisting the urge to yell out that they didn't really know Phil at all. Chris's hand stays on me, half-restraining, half-comforting.

"We'd like to invite Phil's flat-mate, Dan, to say a few words." I look up at the pastor, not moving for a moment before standing up on shaking legs. I take a place behind the podium, using it to support my weight. I pull the eulogy out of my pocket and smooth it out.

"Phil was not only my flat mate, but my best friend. He was funny and kind and—" and the words are blurring together into a massive stereotype that is not Phil. It is who these people pictured Phil to be and I can't do it. I can't read this lie. "Actually, Phil could be a pain in the ass to live with. He left his stuff lying all over the flat and he was constantly forgetting his keys on the counter and he would knock on the door incessantly until I let him in and he would wake me up at ungodly hours to show me something he found on the internet." I smile at the sudden wave of memories.

"But that was Phil. He was forgetful and impatient and so unbelievably caring. He would just know without me saying anything exactly what I needed. He read me like a book. This one time," I say, leaning more casually against the podium, "I came home after visiting my parents to find a pile of movie rentals and homemade stir-fry because he had seen me post on Facebook that I had a long trip. He was always doing stuff like that.

"I knew Phil for three years, and in that time he became the most important thing in the world to me. I was lucky to know him. I was lucky to love him and I was lucky to have him love me." I look at Phil's family and see them smiling at me. "I was damn lucky to find a person as—as amazing as him in my lifetime." I look down at the closed casket sitting on the stage. I'd been avoiding it since I walked in, refusing to accept that my Phil is lying in that wooden box. But I can't keep pretending.

"I will miss you every day until the die that I die, Phil Lester." I walk down from the podium and kiss the cold, smooth wood above his perfect face. "And I will love you just as long."

**0.0.0**

I stay at the grave site long after all the mourners have left and watched as the trucks covered Phil's body with dirt. I told Peej and Chris to go ahead to the reception. Phil's brother sat with me for awhile, not saying anything. Right before he left, he rested his hand against the dirt covering his brother's body and gave me a hug. I want to go with him, back to Phil's old house. Back to the people who are still alive. But I can't bring myself to leave. It feels like, as long as I stay here, sitting on this freshly turned soil, Phil is not dead.

I stare up at the infinities worth of stars. Coming from London, I don't much get the opportunity to fully appreciate them. It's beautiful here. I run a handful of soil through my hands. "I love you, Phil," I tell him, loving and hating the way the words sound on my lips. "I want more time." My tears pour down my cheeks, landing on my dirtied hand. My body begins shaking with barely-contained sobs. "I never deserved you." With the echo of his last words on my lips, I break down.


End file.
